


Inferno

by INMH



Series: hc_bingo fanfiction fills 2020 [30]
Category: The Order: 1886
Genre: Angst, Child Murder, Dark, Drama, Fire, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Murder, Strong Language, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:07:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26243131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/INMH/pseuds/INMH
Summary: Isabeau makes a serious mistake.
Series: hc_bingo fanfiction fills 2020 [30]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1789369
Kudos: 2





	Inferno

**[-The Twelfth of December, 1887-** ]  
  
The report came in at noon:  
  
“A Lycan den’s been located in Whitechapel, sir.”  
  
Finally, after months of searching, they had found one.  
  
The Lord Chancellor looked to Isabeau, Lafayette, and Elaine. “You three are going to offer assistance to the authorities in Whitechapel. There are civilians in the area, so if the Half-breeds go peacefully, then withhold violence; if they fight, then give even better than what you get.”  
  
“I do not expect that they will leave their homes without a fight,” Lafayette muttered, not loud enough for the Chancellor to hear, but enough so that Isabeau did. He’d grown strange and melancholy in the year since Grayson had betrayed them; he didn’t smile as much, didn’t joke as much anymore, and his witty observations had an unmistakably cynical edge to them now. What he’d just said- implying that the Lycans had a _home_ in Whitechapel, that the Order was throwing them from their rightful living place as opposed to exterminating an infestation of blood-thirsty _beasts_ , was treading the dangerous line of treason. Isabeau would not be wrong to approach the Chancellor with this information.  
  
But she wouldn’t.  
  
If interrogated directly Isabeau would simply say she didn’t have sufficient evidence, that she would not trouble the Chancellor with half-baked theories that may be nothing more than a mild depressive state over Grayson’s departure. But in her heart, Isabeau knew that she wouldn’t turn in Lafayette without utter certainty that he had betrayed them in some significant way- and it was for no other reason than that she could not bear another lost friend to the Rebels.  
  
She had lost Perceval to the Rebels, Grayson to the Rebels in a very different sort of way, and then she’d lost Alastair to Grayson; she would not, _could not_ lose Lafayette too.  
  
The ride to Whitechapel was fraught with tension. Lafayette was moody and silent, and Elaine exchanged only a few terse words with either of them; Isabeau wasn’t certain if Elaine was wary of them both for being close to the now disgraced Grayson, or if it was simply a reaction to Lafayette’s presence (Elaine thought him irresponsible, though she’d never clarified why), but Isabeau wasn’t in a mood to pick a fight for now.  
  
The police presence was strangely subdued, and when the Knights stepped out of the carriage onto a nearly silent street they were confronted with an officer that pressed a finger to his lips. “We believe we have gone undetected for now,” he whispered as he led them down a small alley where several police were congregated. “We’d like to keep it that way until the raid starts.”  
  
“Naturally,” Elaine said shortly.  
  
The plan was simple: Support the police in raiding the buildings and eliminate any Lycans that came out to play. Isabeau could do that, and she was confident that Elaine and Lafayette could do it as well; simple and easy.  
  
 _If it looks easy, there are probably hidden difficulties you haven’t found yet, Isi._  
  
Isabeau’s lip curled. She shook her head as though she thought she could dislodge Grayson’s words from her memory, as if it could be as simple as shaking a bug from her hair. His years of mentorship and advice was so encompassing, so pervasive in her life and everything she had learned about being a Knight that she could scarcely breathe without remembering _something_ he’d said once.  
  
She didn’t want to remember it.  
  
She didn’t want to remember any of it.  
  
They split up, fanning out across the area. Elaine was with the main group raiding the actual buildings, and would be their immediate support; Lafayette and Isabeau would be spread out with the police, creating a net through which anyone trying to flee would be caught. They tried to move quietly, and keep moving so that any sentinels wouldn’t be able to report specific locations of officers or Knights to their cohorts.  
  
Isabeau was at once aware and unaware, dull and sharp, in that way that someone is when they’ve performed a task so many times that they did not need to think on it too hard.  
  
 _You should always think on it hard when there’s danger involved, Isabeau._  
  
 _One wrong move, one noise gone unheeded-_  
  
Isabeau grunted and shook her head again, this time more violently than before.  
  
“Get out of my head,” She growled to herself, because none of the bobbies were nearby. “You’ve no right to be there anymore. You have no right at-”  
  
And then, a noise; not just any noise, though.  
  
It was a _bark._  
  
Isabeau pivoted in place, whipping to face the direction the noise had come from, and then went rigid. Once upon a time, she would have stayed this way until someone shook her loose; now she could shake herself loose, and she found herself veering off course and heading towards the sound, weaving through alleyways and around rubbish as she hunted. There was a part of Isabeau that knew it could just be a dog, some mutt that was kept around to chase rats, but instinct told her that that wasn’t the case. The sound of a Lycan’s bark was not _too_ dissimilar from a dog’s, but it was just different enough to cause some notice.  
  
Eventually, she found herself on a small intersection. There was a clump of industrial buildings, one of which being a seemingly abandoned warehouse. ‘Seemingly’, of course, because only seconds after reaching the intersection Isabeau heard another bark, much closer and almost certainly coming from the warehouse.  
  
Isabeau crept over, opened the door silently (just a sliver) and looked in.  
  
It was dark.  
  
But she saw fur.  
  
And teeth.  
  
And inhuman forms.  
  
(And human forms too, but that meant nothing; some Lycans could and did change at will.)  
  
Isabeau shut the door quickly and quietly, breathing heavily.  
  
 _Lycans._ Dozens of them. All congregated in the warehouse, romping around like they were having a grand old time. Some growled and whined, some spoke with human voices that all blended together into a vicious, terrifying cacophony. Was this a den? Did all of these Lycans live on top of one another in the middle of a warehouse, waiting until they could prowl the street and rip innocent people apart?  
  
For a moment, Isabeau did not move. She stood with one hand on the knob, the other pressed against the door in the event that a Lycan tried to come barging out. She bowed her head, shut her eyes, and tried to decide what to do next.  
  
The proper course of action would be to alert Perceval and Elaine, radio that she had located the den and required significant backup- a sonar payload would knock them for a loop and make them quite easy to pick off, especially given that they were all packed together in the warehouse.  
  
But then a thought occurred to Isabeau:  
  
The Lycans were all in the warehouse. Calling in backup would almost certainly alert them, send them running or provoking them to a fight, which would almost certainly result in injuries and deaths. It was not a desirable outcome, but it was the most likely one if she did precisely what was expected of her.  
  
The idea bloomed so naturally. It had the sort of unpretentious cleverness that made one feel warm inside, satisfied to have found such an adroit solution to what initially seemed like such a considerable problem. It was the sort of quick-wittedness that Alastair would have praised her for, once upon a time. The Chancellor had been an authoritative father, but as a brother Alastair had no such obligation to be stern and had been liberal with his praises for his precocious little sister.  
  
Isabeau’s eyes watered even as her heart hardened.  
  
 _Yes, I think this plan will do nicely._  
  
As warehouses go, this one was not big- it only had two doors, the smaller traditional one that Isabeau had peeked into and a larger one on the other side that could be slid open. The bigger door she tied shut, and then wedged a crate into in the event that the old, thick cord snapped too quickly. The other door she wedged shut with a few pieces of board under the doorknob; then she carefully pushed a few crates in to surround it, just enough to seriously delay anyone who managed to break through.  
  
The warehouse was old.  
  
And it had been an unseasonably dry autumn.  
  
So yes, Isabeau thought to herself as she pulled out the small pocket of matches she kept in her pocket, the warehouse would likely go up in flames fairly quickly, damned cargo and all.  
  
She considered using the thermite rifle strapped to her back, but the gun was terribly noisy and she wanted the Lycans to have as little warning as possible before the flames had a chance to consume them. If they escaped, she would pick them off; if they didn’t, then a massive amount of ammo and manpower had been saved for later use. Her father was a man of numbers, he could appreciate such logic.  
  
Isabeau stared up at the warehouse, still hearing the yips and barks of the Lycans inside. There seemed to be a pane of glass between her mind and her body: She understood what she was about to do, understood the repercussions for both the Lycans and herself when it became obvious that she had diverted from protocol and committed arson. It should have given her greater pause mentally and emotionally, should have made her apprehensive about whether or not it was wise.  
  
But Isabeau’s body acted so smoothly, going through the motions of striking the match and holding it aloft. She planned to drop several to ensure that the building would ignite faster, knowing that speed was key.  
  
 _I should be thinking harder about this_ , Isabeau knew. _I should be feeling uncertain about this._  
  
 _I am about to burn over a dozen Lycans alive._  
  
Her hand came up to brush against her jaw. Isabeau’s gloved fingers could not quite feel the demarcation between her undamaged skin and the pale white scars leftover from a Lycan’s claws, but she knew where they were instinctively. She could trace them from her jaw, down her neck, all the way over her collarbone with her three middle fingers and not deviate from the ragged path. Isabeau had no scars from the incident, but her lower back experienced sharp, stabbing aches, a leftover memory of the broken spine that the Elder Lycan had inflicted upon her in the London Hospital.  
  
Every single injury ever committed upon her by a Lycan, Isabeau remembered with terrible clarity whether it had left a scar or not.  
  
So she dropped the match.  
  
And then another.  
  
And then another.  
  
And then another.  
  
And then, finally, one more.  
  
Within minutes, the building was up in flames. It didn’t take long at all before the yelping started- dozens of pained and panicked cries just barely rising above the crackling of the flames and the crumbling wood. Isabeau was strangely entranced by it, frozen as she listened to the sound of dozens of Lycans realizing that the building was on fire and that they ought to escape, ought to flee before it could consume them.  
  
 _I should have my gun out,_ Isabeau thought dimly, the only thought piercing the strange fog that had come over her. _Just in case they break out_.  
  
But no Lycans emerged from the roof. No Lycans came bursting through the locked doors, or the boarded-up windows. The cries increased in their pitch, but the Lycans were seemingly unsuccessful in finding a way out. Isabeau had done a better job than she had realized, apparently: Barring any last-minute escapes, it seemed that all of the Lycans in the warehouse were about to suffocate or burn to death.  
  
 _Good_.  
  
There had been a time when Isabeau had wearied of the life of a Knight.  
  
Now she burned with the intensity of her devotion to it, a metaphorical fire that burned greater and hotter than the real one she had just started.  
  
“My lady!” Two of the bobbies from the alley came running up, skidding to a stop to avoid colliding with her. They eyed the burning building with surprise and horror. “Lady Igraine, we saw the fire!”  
  
“Are you alright, ma’am?”  
  
“I’m perfectly fine,” Isabeau said coolly, turning and walking past them as her hand fell from her jaw to lie against her side.  
  
“But ma’am, the fire-”  
  
“Let’s go,” Isabeau snapped, cutting him off as the howls echoed from the building. The two police seemed to realize then what she had done, their eyes widening in shock- at her choice in weapon, fire? At the brutality of death by fire? “Other Lycans may come running.”  
  
“But ma’am,” One officer replied awkwardly, looking between Isabeau and the warehouse, “The building- what if it blazes out of control?”  
  
“The buildings on either side are unoccupied,” Isabeau responded. “Call for the fire brigade in five minutes time- not a second more- and tell the fire-control airship to be on stand-by in the event that it gets any worse.” She turned her back and started walking towards the carriage, muttering more to herself than him:  
  
“Give the monsters a chance to burn.”  
  
 **[-The Thirteenth of December, 1887-]**  
  
It was like sitting in a tomb.  
  
No one spoke, but the air was heavy with emotion, with grief.  
  
Alastair’s gaze flicked between the assembled Lycans, running through their losses in his mind: Argus’s oldest son and his three grandchildren, Sarah’s young son, Holly’s younger cousin, Robert’s two daughters. Though no one made a sound, Alastair saw Sarah’s shoulders shaking with silent sobs, and tears streaming down Robert’s face.  
  
All in all, their dead numbered twenty-three.  
  
Seven adults and sixteen children, their bodies smoldering in the remains of the warehouse they’d been sheltering in.  
  
“It was a _mistake_ ,” said Lysander, whose sister had perished in the blaze. His voice was thick and wobbly. “Should’ve never separated the kids from us, should have just taken them and scattered-”  
  
“It’s worked before,” Madeleine snapped. “Sending the kids off and scattering them about only ever ended in them getting lost or caught, the bobbies have _never_ even bothered with the warehouse-”  
  
Sarah strode across the room and slapped her.  
  
Adrienne got up and gently pushed her back and away from Madeleine; Sarah didn’t go for her again, just crumpled to the floor, sobbing as Adrienne redirected her (half-dragged her, really) back to the corner she’d been sitting in.  
  
 _Well,_ Alastair thought with a sigh, _someone needed to do it._ Madeleine was entirely tactless, and she seemed to take pride in it on most days. Evidently it hadn’t occurred to her that now was the least optimal time to start getting snippy and publicly picking fights with a man who’d just lost his sister.  
  
Alastair shivered, swallowed a little bile that charged up his throat.  
  
No, picking a fight with someone who would soon be burying his little sister was not a good idea, not at all. If he had ever been forced to bury Isabeau at any age, but especially when she was so young, it would have killed him.  
  
“Argus,” Robert said throatily, sounding graver than Alastair had ever heard him. “This cannot go unanswered.” Alastair turned and glanced at him. Robert seemed as though he had been rendered hollow, scooped free of everything but his grief and pain, and now a simmering anger. It was understandable, but a lump rose in Alastair’s throat at the notion of the attack being ‘answered’. Something had to be done, yes, but he suspected that it would be something ugly.  
  
And Alastair was getting very tired of the ugliness.  
  
But Argus nodded, slow and easy. He was a man of great reason and restraint, but the death of a child and of grandchildren could shake even the wisest and most level-headed of men. “Yes, Robert,” he said softly. “There will be a reckoning. That, I can promise you.”  
  
Heads nodded; hissed, vengeful whispers filled the air.  
  
Alastair bowed his head, shut his eyes, and stayed silent.  
  
Something awful was coming.  
  
He could smell it.  
  
-End


End file.
